


Orphan

by RedEris



Series: White Wolf White Knight [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: Geralt is followed away from his last contract by a boy who he forsees will be nothing but trouble.





	Orphan

Whoever was following Geralt, they weren’t any sort of woodsman. He’d been listening to the crunch of dry leaves and the occasional snap of twigs since he’d left the fields for his cross-country cut back to town and Roach. Geralt sighed and circled back, expecting some local tough looking to retrieve the heavy pouch he’d taken for the noonwraith he’d just dispatched.

What he found was a boy, so undernourished and filthy that it’d be hard to guess his age--perhaps a skinny ten. The lad was foundering, having lost the sound of Geralt’s progress through the woods to follow. Geralt watched, bemused, and then stepped out of hiding to collar the boy. The boy let out an earsplitting screech and flailed wildly. Geralt lifted him just enough off his feet to rob him of leverage and turned him at arm’s length. After the first startled moment, the boy began swinging fists, hollering at the top of his lungs. Geralt let him, until he thought to overcome his lack of reach by putting all his weight on Geralt’s arm and kicking out with both legs. Geralt grunted as the boy’s feet made solid contact with his knee and dropped him on his ass in the leaves.

The two scowled at each other in silence.

“You’re following me. Why?”

“Wanna go with you.”

“Why the hell would you want to do that?”

“Wanna be a witcher.”

 _That_ put Geralt back on his heels.

“No, you don’t.”

“How do you know?” pressed the boy, scrambling to his feet again, darting around as Geralt turned away. “You read minds?”

“No, that’s sorceresses, not witchers. I know because it’s a shit life. Go home, kid.”

Geralt walked away, long legs carrying him faster than the boy could walk. Jogging, the boy followed.

Sighing, Geralt considered his options. He could easily outdistance the boy, or simply hold his pace far longer than the boy could keep up, but either way, the kid would end up deeper in the woods than was safe. He could give someone in the next village a little coin to take the kid back down the road, but that was a day’s ride and he didn’t know that he could trust anyone not to ditch the boy and take the cash. He stopped, running a hand over his face, and turned to catch the panting boy.

“Come on, we’re taking you home.”

The boy scrambled out of reach.

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh yeah? Then where’ve you been staying?”

“Aunt’s house. Noonwraith got her.”

“And your parents?”

“Soldiers got them.”

Geralt ground his teeth. “Shit, I hate Velen.”

“So take me with you. Witchers take children, right?”

Heaving another sigh, Geralt squatted down to more nearly the boy’s eye level.

“Look, kid--what’s your name?”

“Jerome.”

Now there was a nice coincidence for you. Same name as Moreau’s son.

“Look, Jerome. Yeah, witchers used to take kids sometimes. But we don’t anymore, because no one makes witchers anymore. And I can’t take you with me. Way too dangerous. Is there someone else, another relative we could take you to?”

Jerome ignored the question. “How come they don’t make witchers no more? Still plenty of monsters, ain’t there?”

“Because...because we don’t know h--” well, that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Silently, he cursed Yen for tinkering with things best forgotten. “Because no one wants to.”

Jerome pressed the attack with all the earnestness of a child. “Why not though? You’re strong, ent you? I want to be strong. Do you hate being a witcher? I wouldn’t. I wanna kill monsters.”

Geralt stared flatly at Jerome for a long moment, and then stood up.

“Come on, Jerome. We’re going back to the village and we’re going to find you a home.”

“I’ll just follow you again.”

“I’ll see that you don’t.”

Jerome made a break for it, and Geralt had to knock him down with a blast of Aard to catch him.

“Be reasonable!” he snapped. “You can’t be alone out here! Now, do I have to leash you, or will you come?”

Jerome glared at him, stolidly. “Wanna be a witcher.”

For the first ten minutes, Geralt carried a limp, defiant Jerome under his arm. After that, the boy condescended to be carried on Geralt’s shoulders. He wrapped his arms tightly around Geralt’s forehead, and instantly, Geralt was in the distant past, Ciri’s little hands tangled in his hair, her high voice demanding another story. He came back to the present and quickly wiped the smile off his face.

Back in the shitty four-cow village he’d started this adventure in, he quickly established that yes, Jerome had one living aunt yet. Third house down from the creek. A pinched woman with frown lines etched into her chin and a wooden spoon in hand answered his knock as Jerome skulked angrily, subtly collared by one strong fist. Behind her, two children peeked around a corner. One had a purple-green bruise spreading across one cheek.

She eyed him, and then caught sight of Jerome.

“Oy, whatcha want? This little shit done something again?” She raised the spoon, an unthinking but clear threat.

“Your sister-in-law has passed away recently, yes?”

A pause.

“What’s it to you?”

Geralt eyed the spoon. He looked again at the fading bruise on the little girl’s cheek, and the way the children shrank into themselves. He resisted the urge to rub his face.

“I put the noonwraith that killed her to rest. Your nephew has offered himself as part payment. I thought you might like a chance to offer something of similar value and keep your nephew.”

He felt Jerome shift in his grip, heard his heart rate spiking upwards.

“Joke’s on you, then,” the woman said. “He aint worth shit, and I got too many mouths to feed anyhow. Take him.”

Tight-lipped, Geralt did so. As they left, the two children ran to catch up with Jerome for hasty goodbyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they entered the woods again, Jerome finally spoke up.

“How come you lied? I didn’t say nuthin about payment.”

“Thought I’d give your aunt a chance to see you as something with value.”

Jerome considered this. “Well, how come you changed your mind, anyhow?”

“Haven’t changed my mind. Just can’t leave you with that woman. I’ll figure something out.”

“You’ll see! I’m not worthless. I can be useful! I can find wood for the fire, and haul water, and if you show me how, I can clean your armor. And I can fight! I beat the baker’s boy and he’s bigger’n me. I’ll be good. You won’t be sorry.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “This is temporary, got it? Temporary.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jerome was surly where Ciri had been sassy, stolid where she had been quicksilver. But his bullheadedness was very familiar. And while deprivation had set his educational starting point much lower, he was eager to learn anything he could get his steely little claws into.

It took Geralt all of one evening to remember that teaching a kid to do something is about fifty times slower and more irritating than just doing the damn thing yourself.

In the morning, he rolled out of his bedroll with a long groan and started doing his morning stretches. Immediately, Jerome sprang up and, watching carefully, began copying him.

“Not making you a witcher, kid.”

“Then I’ll make myself a witcher!”

Geralt huffed. “Doesn’t work like that. What are you going to do, will yourself to mutate?”

“I’ll watch you. I’ll learn.”

“That’s not enough, without the...changes.”

“Then I’ll find someone to make the changes,” Jerome said, straining to imitate a deep stretch that he wouldn’t be able to replicate without weeks more training.

“You won’t. Here, cut that out. Bad form is worse than nothing. Rotate your heel out.”

Jerome obeyed, and fell into a more natural position.

“Better,” Geralt grunted. “Don’t think I’m training you, though. Just can’t stand bad form.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Velen was recovering from the war, but it was still entirely the wrong place to be trying to find a good situation for an orphan who had no interest whatsoever in making a good presentation of himself. Geralt tried it out on the ealdorman of the first large village they came to, and abandoned the idea the minute the man got a good look at Jerome’s black-browed scowl. Instead, he traded for a lower-slung saddle, before the cantle carved a permanent furrow across his ass from having a kid crammed between him and the swell. He took a loss on the saddle, which was worth far less than the one he traded it for, but it was immediately worth it in comfort. Besides, his favorite saddles were still all back at Corvo Bianco. No point taking anything too nice into Velen.

“You must be rich,” Jerome said, after a solid half hour of peaceful silence.

“What?”

“Well, you got a horse and two swords and you had that really nice saddle, like, and then you just gone and give it up. So you must be rich.”

“Yen would tell you I’m just bad at hanging on to money. But yeah, I’m pretty comfortable these days.”

“So being a witcher is good coin?”

That startled a snort of hilarity out of Geralt. “Shit, no. Most times, I’ve barely gotten along. Only pays well if you work for royalty, and that’s near as likely to get you hung as paid.”

“How come you got money, then?”

“Working for royalty and not getting hung. Luck, mostly.”

Jerome twisted around awkwardly in the saddle, eyes big as saucers. “You met _kings_ an’ stuff?”

Geralt chuckled at the awe on the boy’s face. “Yeah, lucky me.”

For a moment Geralt thought Jerome had been stunned into silence, but then, he reverently whispered, “Tell me.”

“Well, why not?” Geralt contemplated which of his stories was suited to the ears of a young boy. “Saw the duchess of Toussaint in her knickers once,” he started.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Five days in, they rode into Vizima. Geralt had meant to cut cross country and get home sooner, but there were bound to be orphanages in Vizima. Geralt had a niggling fear that he had to hand the boy off _soon_ , before Jerome got too attached.

Geralt had long since forgotten the awe of seeing his first city. He found himself watching Jerome’s slack-jawed wonder and had to wipe the smile off his face a good half-dozen times before they found a decent inn and got settled in a room. Jerome darted around the room until he’d familiarized himself with every stick of furniture, tested the mattress, found the chamber pot, and investigated the rag-stuffed mouse hole. Then he installed himself at the window, staring out avidly.

“Right, I’m going to ask around and see if I can get word of an orphanage.”

“Not going to stay at no orphanage,” Jerome said without turning.

“Not going to stay at _any_ orphanage”, Geralt corrected automatically.

“Knew you’d wise up!” Jerome cackled. Geralt stalwartly ignored him.

“Can I trust you to stay put in this room?”

“No,” Jerome promptly replied. “Coming with you.”

Geralt sighed, resigned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The orphanage was clean, he’d give it that. Threadbare, but scrupulously clean. The kids looked well-enough fed, if a bit pale compared to Jerome’s country sun-brown. Geralt asked very thoroughly after the place’s sponsors, and was assured that they were all highly respected members of the community. But then, Orianna had been, too. 

He insisted on seeing the play yard--too small, no grass--and the school room. A bench and a slate for every child. Nicer than average. The children slept in two long rooms, on identical straw cots. Jerome was a small, silent stormcloud throughout, no matter how Geralt tried to tease him out. He stood so close that three times Geralt nearly bashed him in the face just by turning around.

“All of our children go on to be productive members of society. We nurture no delinquent tendencies here,” the director went on. “They learn their letters and their ‘rithmetic, and the older children take in washing and mending so they learn a trade. I assure you, everyone gets equal treatment here. And we tolerate no runaways,” he added, eyes flicking to Jerome’s fierce little face.

They completed the tour in the director’s office. Geralt studied Jerome. The boy had shut down entirely, now, and was blankly studying the corner of the desk. 

Geralt could figure out what all of those fine words meant well enough. It was a prison, in a way. A better life than these children had any expectation of otherwise, of course, but still a prison. And no one here would ever notice that under his stolid surface, Jerome was a sharp boy capable of a great deal more than basic arithmetic and laundry. His strong will would only ever earn him a dispassionate, thorough whipping here. No one here would feed his hungry curiosity or notice his flashes of wit. No one would scratch his scalp to soothe him when he had nightmares.

_Dammit._

“Thank you for your time,” Geralt said, “but the boy will be staying with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt is an absolute softie for children and has way too much love to give; thank you for coming to my TED Talk.


End file.
